Another Time, Another Place
by scripturient-meraki
Summary: In a world where Voldemort rules and Harry Potter is defeated, the only solution is to change the past. (Rewriting Destiny redraft) [HGSB]
1. Prologue

A/N: Hello lovely readers, new and old. Thanks for reading and sticking with me as I try to manage the mess that is my life.

Trigger Warnings: There is some mention of physical abuse.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

 _"_ _In the midst of darkness, light persists." – Mahatma Gandhi_

* * *

It begins with the end.

* * *

"Harry Potter is dead! There is nothing that can stand in my way now," Voldemort hisses, glaring with red eyes at the fallen members of the resistance. His followers coalesce around him, faces sneering, lips twisted into victorious smirks, eyes gleaming cruelly. Their silver masks are discarded, haphazardly strewn across the Great Hall, forgotten. There is no need for them now.

She chokes back a sob as she stares transfixed on Neville's broken form, yet another body sprawled on the cracked marble floors in the crumbling ruins of the once great castle. The Sword of Gryffindor lies a few feet away from both Neville and a boy with unruly black hair, glistening with a fresh greenish-silver substance, Nagini's blood. The giant green serpent slithers in a circle around the Dark Lord, spitting her forked tongue gleefully at the bodies despite her injury. A feast lays before her eyes.

She feels numb. She should be planning, sparking with anger and rebellion. But she sees the remaining survivors, faces ashen with mirrored expressions of pain, grief, and defeat. And one by one, each of them crumple to their knees. Surrender.

There is no hope left.

* * *

The crumbling grey room is all she knows now. The air is thick with a suffocating smell of forgotten-ness, but she doesn't mind it anymore. A tiny candle, burnt down to a stub, splutters and struggles to keep its flame, lighting the room with a weak, flickering glow. That is all the light she can risk.

She's not sure who else of the resistance is alive—if there is a resistance. She hasn't set a foot outside the room since that fateful battle, and her only company is Luna. They never share any words for fear of revealing her presence, and she hardly ever stays longer than a few minutes only to bring food, but it is comforting to have a friend.

Ever since her forced marriage to Rabastan Lestrange two weeks prior, she has become loonier than before. More frequently now, she enters the room with purple splotches on her arms and face, sometimes a handprint impressed into the tender white skin of her neck. On those days, her eyes are glassy, her actions twitchy and jumpy, recoiling at any movement. Her only moments of sanity are in those few minutes when she would glance at her desk. Her blue eyes would always meet hers with a hopeful, desperate gleam.

But always, she only shakes her head in return.

* * *

Her desk is a mess of gears and cogs, brass pieces and thick tomes. In the centre of it all sits a softly glinting gold necklace, the pendulum broken apart and refitted with brass, glowing faintly with silvery magic. Her attention is to a leather book open in front of her, thinner than all the other volumes on her desk. Half its yellowed parchment has been torn out, the rest faded over time, much to her initial frustration.

But now, as her thick brown hair falls over her shoulders as she bends close to the book, she trembles with an excitement she hasn't felt in a long time. She picks up her wand—not _hers_ , actually, but one Luna had acquired—and waves it, the incantation spoken wordlessly.

In the midst of the spell, she feels it coming and a feeling of dread rolling over her. As if on cue, her body seizes up, waves of pain crashing through her body, reaching every nerve ending. Burning, relentless, white-hot fire flows through her arteries. She bites her tongue and clenches her fists in an effort to stop herself from screaming. The wand is snapped cleanly into two pieces from the strength of her grip.

And then, it's over.

She takes a shaky breath, her knees weak. She had fallen to the floor during the episode. She scrambles towards her desk, uncaring of how her muscles scream in pain as she struggles back. Her project has become her whole life, the world's only hope. She can't fail.

But as she reaches for the necklace on her desk, the pieces finally re-joined and complete, her fear subsides.

Luna steps quietly into the room; practice makes her as silent as a shadow. She looks thinner than she remembers, with dark bags under her eyes, porcelain skin marred by fresh purple bruises, a sad resigned expression haunting her dulled blue eyes. She walks closer, bearing a tray of soup. The smell is inviting, but all she can think of now are emerald green eyes, free of pain and the burden of a prophecy. If she gets this right, she will be saving hundreds— _thousands—_ of lives.

Luna's eyes meet hers, sees the golden chain hung around her neck, and in that moment, she receives the answer she has been waiting for. The tray clatters to the floor, piping hot soup spilling on the floorboards and the loud crash that ensues is heard through the entire building, but neither of them cares.

Before she even realises it, the Ravenclaw's thin arms are wrapped around her, tears pricking both of their eyes. "Good luck," she whispers. The first words she has heard in what seems like eons.

Right as the blonde speaks the words, the door bursts open, hinges squeaking as a tall angry figure steps into the doorway, sleeves rolled up and his forearm baring a distinct black brand. Rabastan Lestrange.

His eyes immediately find hers, and his expression flickers to one of surprise as he raises his wand. " _Avada_ —"

"Go!" Luna yells as she leaps into the path of the jet of green light.

She stumbles back, eyes widening in shock. Nevertheless, she heeds Luna's last command before the Death Eater can aim another curse. With shaky fingers, she spins the tiny hourglass. As she disappears, Luna crumples to the floor with a serene smile on her face.


	2. Interlude

A/N: I'm back! This is a short one, just a little piece from another perspective... Chapter one will be up hopefully soon though (with actual names haha). Crossing my fingers!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

 _"_ _Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen."_

 _–_ _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

There is something enticing about the view from his window. The sky is darkened with heavy grey clouds, the wind whipping through the leaves viciously. Rain pelts down the pane harshly, and his warm breath fogs the clear glass.

"I'm going out," he announces.

His friends, curled up by the roaring fire, look up at his sudden outburst.

"Are you insane? It's pouring out."

"Not insane," he corrects, throwing his friends a cheeky grin. "Just bored."

* * *

The gaps in the cobblestone create puddles that soak through his shoes, and the rain drenches him mercilessly, but he has never felt more free in his life.

The warm lights and the inviting thought of butterbeer draws him near Three Broomsticks, but something makes him pass by without a second thought. He edges near the outskirts of the small village and pulls his coat tighter around himself, suddenly feeling the freezing winds slicing his cheeks. He's probably going to catch a cold, at the very least.

But right as he begins to walk back, something catches his eye.

A figure's prone form lies near where he stands.

He steps closer. Curious.

It is a girl his age, perhaps even younger, because he has never seen her face before.

Her eyes are closed, as if sleeping, but she looks far from peace. Her face is twisted in an agonised expression, her robes in tatters, her skin sallow, and her bones jutting out sharply. Malnourished. Like the street urchins in the Muggle London, but worse. _Is she dead_?

" _Homenum Revelio_ ," he murmurs with a flick of his wand. When the light from his wand hovers over her body, faintly illuminating the pale pink flush of the blood still coursing through her veins, struggling to keep her warm and alive, he realises she is not dead. Yet.

Without a second thought, he scoops her up in his arms—alarm shooting through him when he notices how light she is—and races back towards the castle.

* * *

"Madam Pomfrey!" he bellows, bursting through the doors of the Hospital Wing. His wet hair and clothes send droplets flying in every direction of the immaculate room, water splattering onto the marble floors in puddles.

The matron jumps, casting an irritated look at the intruder as she surveys the mess he had created. Her harsh expression immediately melts to concern when she sees the girl.

"What have you done to her?"

"Nothing! I found her at Hogsmeade," he says defensively as he watches her float the girl to a clean bed. She casts drying and warming charms on the both of them, and he murmurs his thanks, suddenly feeling foolish for having forgotten such useful spells.

The matron tsks as she examines at the unconscious girl clinically. "The poor girl… I wonder what happened." She widens her eyes when she notices the number of scars littering her body. "Dear Merlin."

He steps closer when he notices the one on her arm, curiously spelling out the word _Mudblood_. He is about to reach out to touch it when Madame Pomfrey remembers he is there.

"Out! Out, Mr Black. Out!" Madam Pomfrey shoos him away, not before slapping a bar of chocolate in his hands. He takes a bite and warmth floods through him, spreading to his fingers in comforting waves. "You can come see her tomorrow."

* * *

"You didn't bring anything back?" His dark haired friend is disappointed.

He throws himself onto his bed, gazing contemplatively at the canopy above his head. "I did."

"Well, what is it? Honeydukes? I thought I smelt chocolate in your breath."

"Not chocolate. _Someone_." His voice had taken a quiet reflective tone, one that his friends knew that it meant he wanted some space.

Knowing that he wouldn't get any other answer out of him, his friend shrugs and climbs into his own bed. " 'Night."

He closes his eyes, but the girl's pinched face burns in his memory. Peculiar, how he can't seem to shake her face from his head when he has dated numerous girls much healthier and prettier than her.

So despite the persistent nagging feeling in his gut—that the girl would bring on far more trouble than he needs, and not the good kind either—he goes to the Hospital Wing the next morning.

Already, the girl looks stronger. Her brown hair has a healthy shine, her cheeks much more rosy than the deathly pale colour he had seen the day before. She even seems to look a bit more filled out, if only by a millimetre.

And when her eyes flutter open, revealing bright intelligent brown eyes, he doesn't regret it at all.


	3. Chapter 1

A/N: Happy New Year everyone! I appreciate everyone's patience and thank you so much for sticking around. Until next time!

Disclaimer: The wonderful Harry Potter universe belongs to J K Rowling.

* * *

 _"_ _This is a new year. A new beginning. And things will change."_

 _–_ _Taylor Swift_

* * *

Nothingness.

She is floating, drifting peacefully in a vast whiteness. A calm she has never known envelops her.

A bright light beckons her, far and distant. Its warmth washes over her, comfortingly. It is safe.

She sees her mother, smiling and youthful, without a trace of worry creasing her faces. She reaches for her.

Figures appear before her very eyes, each of them smiling and waving. A laugh bubbles when she sees the faces of the loved ones she had missed for so long. They have been waiting for her.

She grasps her mother's hand, and a peace she has long forgotten blossoms in her chest. Her mother's soft hand caresses her face lovingly, an act reminiscent of an innocent age, untarnished by war.

War.

She turns to see Luna's bright blue eyes meeting hers solemnly. Almost accusatorily.

She hesitates.

"Wait for me," she says to her mother. "I'm sorry."

But her mother's smile widens. Pride. She kisses the top of her head. A blessing.

She lets go. She feels her body sinking away from the light, away from peace.

Her vision darkens. It grows cold.

* * *

Pain.

White-hot sparks dance along her skin, trailing a burning pain reminiscent of bathing in acid.

 _"_ _I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?"_

 _"_ _Crucio!"_

She feels her entire being, her entire existence, being ripped to pieces. Bones splintering, flesh disintegrating, soul shattering.

This must be life.

* * *

There is a smell of antiseptic and lemon in the air, a woman's voice hums.

A shooting pain courses through her body, her muscles aching from disuse.

 _Something is wrong._

"You're awake."

It is a man's voice, low and deep. It is a voice so familiar yet foreign, something she can't quite place. She blinks hazily at the source, her eyes focussing on a tall figure, thin and lanky. His dark hair is long and wavy, shadowing his face as he leans towards her.

"When am I?" she slurs, her jaw moving too slowly to be coherent. Her voice sounds raspy to her ears.

"You mean _where_?" he responds, lips quirking at her supposed mistake. "You're in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts."

She tries to shake her head and nearly blacks out in the process. "When?" she repeats, trying her best to enunciate through the dull ache in her bones.

The smile slides off his face as he tilts his head questioningly. "It's Sunday, the fifth of September."

Normally she would be able to pinpoint the possible years just from the small sliver of information. But her mind is numb and sleep beckons her invitingly, her vision already swimming once more. She tries to open her mouth to speak, but he stops her.

"You look tired. You should get some sleep." He smiles almost fondly when he sees her fighting to stay awake. "Goodnight."

He turns to leave, but pauses when he hears her mumbled response. "Goodnight, Sirius."

* * *

"Professor Dumbledore!"

The old wizard smiles genially, his blue eyes twinkling. He looks similar to the Dumbledore of her time, face creased from age and burden, hair long and white—though it is much shorter than she remembers.

A lump catches in her throat; it's been so long since she last saw those twinkling eyes.

"Pardon me if I am not as well informed of you as you are of me."

"My name is Hermione Granger."

"Ah, Miss Granger, I have the feeling you have quite the story to tell."

She smiles, tears pricking her eyes. He always had a way of making her feel at ease, despite that nagging feeling that something was entirely wrong about the situation.

"I…" Hermione hesitates, a niggling feeling of distrust emerging from her gut. This was the man who sent Harry to the slaughter. This was the man who sent three under-age students on a dangerous quest, only armed with the most vague of riddles and an impossible burden of responsibility.

But when she looks into his sage eyes, so full of understanding and goodness, her resolve crumbles. "I'm eighteen years old, and I was born in the year 1979."

"But it's only 1977. So that could only mean…" His eyebrows lift in a mixture of surprise of interest. "Time magic."

Hermione nods, pulling out the long golden chain under her hospital gown to reveal the bizarre-looking Time-Turner she had been working on for so long. "In my time, the Dark Lord has taken over the Wizarding World after winning the Second Wizarding War. I constructed a True Time Turner to send myself back to 1940, the plan being that I would defeat Tom Riddle before he rose to power." The corners of her mouth quirk upward ruefully, "Though in reflection, I suppose I buggered the spell."

"You created a True Time Turner?" Dumbledore's eyes widen, deeply impressed. "In the span of a few months?"

"No, years," Hermione corrects, "After Tom Riddle returned in my fourth year, you commissioned me to invent one, and gave me permission to study with the Unspeakables for parts of my summers. I wasn't able to finish the project until my seventh year, not until…" Her voice becomes strangled as a lump forms in her throat, "until Harry died… and we lost the war."

She feels a faint nudge in the back of her mind, and she locks eyes with Dumbledore. Legilimency. She pushes memories to the forefront of her thoughts, overwhelming him with images and scenes of the trio's many adventures, all cumulating to one final scene: Voldemort's victory.

As the memories replay, she can feel her strength breaking, tears springing in her eyes _._ She is revisiting memories, memories she had pushed back to a small corner of her brain to focus on her task at hand. She can't go spiralling into sorrow, not when she still needed to save the world. It takes all of her willpower steel herself, to reveal only the pieces vital to convincing Dumbledore as her emotions begin shattering her defences.

When Dumbledore pulls away, he has an unreadable expression on his face. "Horcruxes? Plural?"

"Indeed, Professor."

"Why...yes, that makes sense now. I'm surprised I didn't see it before."

"I don't blame you," Hermione says understandingly, "From what I heard from Harry, Tom Riddle was a brilliant student with great potential. I'm sure you didn't want to believe it."

His attention shifts to her, concern filling his eyes, "Croaker's Law—"

"Yes," Hermione swallows, levelling him with a determined gaze. "I know the laws, and I know the risks. Because I disrupted the fabric of time just to travel back to the past, I will render my natural self to become un-born." Her hands clench tightly. "But I have to. I cannot allow the future to come to such a horrific circumstance."

"You are a very brave and wise girl, Miss Granger."

Her intensity fades and her mouth twists into a sad half-smile. "Thank you, Professor."

"If I may, what are your plans now?"

"In my time, you entrusted me and two other students to destroy the Dark Lord's Horcruxes. I plan to continue to do so this year. When the war officially begins in a few years, I will do my utmost to prevent as many casualties as possible."

"That is quite the ambitious plan," Dumbledore notes, "Well, Miss Granger, you have survived quite the ordeal. I shall do my utmost to aid your cause."

"Thank you. I have a few requests for you, Professor."

"Yes?"

"I was unable to complete my final year at Hogwarts. I was wondering if I may…"

"Why, of course!" Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "Though I suspect your brilliant mind will find the courses tedious."

"I'm sure I have much to learn." Hermione ducks her head modestly.

"And your other request?"

"I… unfortunately am not equipped with any supplies. I lost my wand…"

Dumbledore smiles gently. "That can easily be arranged. Thank you, Miss Granger. Please, do not hesitate to ask for aid."

"You are very kind, Professor."

An inscrutable expression appears in his eyes. "Before I leave, Miss Granger, I, myself, have a favour to ask of you."

"Yes, Professor?"

"Keep me informed of your progress."

* * *

"Madam Pomfrey, I'm fine, honestly." Hermione protests, gaping at the enormous tray of food on her lap; it seems as if the house-elves had prepared the entire start-of-term feast for her. An assortment of dishes are crammed onto the tray, which had to be enlarged to fit everything. Though the roast beef glistens delectably and the mashed potato with gravy smells absolutely mouth-watering, Hermione cannot swallow a single bite.

"You're still a tad underweight, dear," Madam Pomfrey clucks disapprovingly.

"Actually, Madam Pomfrey," a new voice interrupts. "Professor Dumbledore needs her in his office."

Hermione looks to her saviour, relief evident on her face. A girl her age stands at the door, a friendly smile on her face and a Head Girl badge pinned to her uniform. She tucks a long, dark red curl behind her ear, familiar brilliant green eyes sparkling at her almost mischievously. Lily Evans.

Harry's mum.

* * *

"Dumbledore just wants to get everything sorted out," Lily explains. "We hardly ever get transfer students, so you're going to be the talk amongst the students." She walks up to the familiar stone gargoyle. "Sugared butterfly wings."

As Lily waits by the stone gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office—it was apparently supposed to be a private conversation—Hermione steps onto the large moving staircase and enters the large circular room, a slight smile crossing her face when she sees a few of the same silver instruments on the spindle-legged tables, puffing wisps of smoke. A few of the portraits had forgotten to feign sleep, watching her with undisguised curiosity as she makes her way closer to the enormous claw-foot desk. She eyes the Sorting Hat, which was sitting limply in its usual place on the shelf behind the Headmaster's desk, wondering if the Hat would recognise her in this time. She had read in _Hogwarts, A History_ that the Sorting Hat was created with an ancient Runic magic lost to wizards eons ago.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore's eyes twinkle as if he had heard her thoughts. Being an immensely skillful Legilimens, he probably did.

"Professor," Hermione greets. "You wished to see me?"

"Yes, we just approach the matter of your enrolment into Hogwarts." He motions her to take a seat. "Lemon drop?"

She smiles, "No, thank you, professor."

"I understand you were a Gryffindor during your time, but considering your mission, would this be the best House for you in this time?"

Hermione opens her mouth to object, when she falters, mind spinning as she considers his words.

It wouldn't hurt staying in Gryffindor; there was a million things she could do in the House; preventing Pettigrew from turning to Voldemort's cause, for example, was an important priority. But then, there were many benefits of becoming a Slytherin as well.

She could see the path she would take if she were to join Slytherin. Worm her way through the ranks of the Death Eaters, gaining easier access to the Horcruxes, spying for the Order. Her mind flashes back to the war. She recalls her struggle with the horcruxes, the darkness that seemed to consume her every thought. She had managed to quell it after the war, banishing it to the darkest recesses of her mind and immersing herself fully into her project. But to be placed in Slytherin… she might spiral into the darkness once again.

She isn't sure she would be able to resurface the next time.

Noticing her hesitation, Dumbledore says gently, "There is no right or wrong choice here. Whichever House you choose, you will accomplish great things."

She would be happiest in Gryffindor— _safest_ in Gryffindor—but even so, it would only hinder her; as a Slytherin, she knew she could destroy the Death Eaters from the inside. "I choose Slytherin."

"A notable choice, Miss Granger." His eyes glitter almost knowingly, as if he had seen her innermost private thoughts when he saw her memories, as if he had seen her struggle with the darkness. "That path can be dangerous; would you sacrifice your soul for the cause?"

"I would rather mine than thousands of others."

Dumbledore nods understandingly, a haggard and sorrowful expression crossing his face. "A word of advice," he says, and Hermione cannot help but think about Dumbledore's experience with Grindewald, "Some things, despite how hard you may try, can never be changed."

"I understand."

The Headmaster almost looks as if he regrets suggesting a change of Houses. "Good luck to you, Miss Granger. Keep your mind clear of your true purpose in Slytherin."


	4. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm back! Thanks for being so patient!

Disclaimer: As always, the Harry Potter universe does not belong to me.

* * *

 _"_ _It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves."_

 _–_ _William Shakespeare_

* * *

"I took the liberty of retrieving your Gringotts vault key, Miss Granger. Miss Evans will be accompanying you to Diagon Alley for your school supplies."

Hermione's mind is abuzz with questions. "I don't have a vault in Gringotts, Professor. Who's vault…?"

"Actually, it _is_ yours," Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "Your last living relation is Hector Dagworth-Granger. He was, in fact, your great great granduncle."

"It can't be. I'm muggle-born." Hermione contradicts.

The Headmaster only smiles.

Her brow furrows and she tilts her head, pondering. "The concept of muggle-born… that was all because of purebloods, wasn't it? They blasted off blood-traitors… _and_ squibs from their family… so that would lead to their integration into the muggle world… and thus muggle-borns." Her eyes light up excitedly, "Magic is hereditary! A magical gene, perhaps…"

He is beaming now.

"Then why is this not a recognised fact? Why do the slurs still exist in my time?" Hermione falters as the answer dawns on her. "Purebloods."

"Indeed," Dumbledore sighs heavily. "It pains me to know that such terrible discrimination still exists in the future."

"The future is not set in stone. My existence here proves it so. To change the minds of society requires action."

"Yes it does," Dumbledore agrees. Placidly.

Hermione narrows her eyes and her mouth tightens.

* * *

"There must be something wrong with him," she hears Lily saying once she steps out of the Headmaster's office. The Head Girl is in deep conversation with a blonde Gryffindor. "He didn't even ruffle his hair! Not even once!"

"Who?" Hermione asks, a teasing smile pulling her lips.

Lily jumps and whirls around, turning pink when she sees her, "All finished? Ready to go to Diagon Alley?"

"Diagon Alley?" Her friend asks wistfully. "Can I go? I saw these new dress robes in Witch Weekly that I've been dying to get."

"Marlene," Lily rolls her eyes, "It's only because I'm taking Hermione to get her things."

"Hermione Granger?" Marlene's blue eyes fix onto Hermione, staring at her inquisitively. "So this is the new girl? Which House are you in?"

She hesitates, wary of the two girls' reaction. "Slytherin."

As expected, both girls take a step back, an instinctive, suspicious expression replacing the welcoming smiles on their faces.

Hermione feels a stabbing pang in her chest as she realises her new House affiliation just possibly lost her any shot of gaining their friendship. She clears her throat awkwardly, "Well, shall we?"

* * *

"So what brings you here to Hogwarts?" Lily asks, trying to break the stilted air between them.

Hermione is grateful for Lily's friendliness, despite all the hostility the House rivalry had created. "It was all really sudden," she says, choosing her words carefully, "I was targeted by Death Eaters. I barely escaped with my life." Technically it is the truth.

"But you're a Slytherin, aren't they known for blood purity? Death Eaters would only be a threat if you're a muggle-born."

"I am," Hermione confirms, pulling up the sleeve of her robes to reveal the scarred lettering on her right forearm. "But I'm also related to the House of Dagworth."

Lily's eyes widen. "Magic is hereditary?"

Hermione cannot help but smile at her intelligence. Merlin, Lily is even quicker than she is! "That's what I thought as well. It seems like a plausible theory, doesn't it?"

"We should definitely research into it," Lily agrees, a smile curling her lips.

"Just think," Hermione's eyes are alight with excitement, "This sort of revelation could be revolutionary!"

* * *

Hermione reaches for the soft red leather book, hands lovingly caressing the gold gilt pages and the embossed Hogwarts symbol on the cover. It is a limited collector's edition, with chapters on the mythical secrets of the castle and detailed illustrations—chapters she has never seen before. A breathless excitement catches in her throat.

 _Hogwarts, A History_ by Bathilda Bagshot.

She can't resist.

* * *

"Hermione," Lily sighs exasperatedly. "This is the third bookstore we've visited. I love books as much as any other bookworm, but this is borderline obsessive!"

Hermione steps into Obscurus Books, a more questionable and dingy bookstore that was possibly her best option in Diagon Alley for getting her hands on tomes detailing in the Dark Arts. "You could just wait outside," she offers. "It'll just be a minute."

Lily rolls her eyes good-naturedly and Hermione feels a twinge of guilt for the obvious lie. "Because I'm generous, I'll give you fifteen minutes," she says with a sarcastic smile. "If you're not out here by then, I'm going to Madam Malkin's without you."

Hermione nods, only half hearing Lily's words, and bolts into the shop in a flurry. Her eyes dance in excitement when she spots it, crammed into a nondescript bookshelf stuck in an overlooked corner by the back of the shop. She pulls the tome out, nearly upsetting the rest of the books on the sagging shelf. Eyeing the dusty bookshelf, she notices an array of banned—and Dark—books, all of which she couldn't find in Flourish and Blotts. Fighting the urge to buy them all, she selects the few that were vital to her mission, a giddy feeling of accomplishment bubbling in her chest. In a rush of excitement, she quickly pays and darts out of the store.

And slams into someone on his way in.

"Merlin! I'm so sorry," she apologises profusely, dropping to the ground to pick up the scattered pile of books she had dropped.

"It's not a problem," a low voice drawls, and suddenly, she's frozen, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. Her eyes snap towards the tall frame, his stance imposing, and his long pale-blonde hair contrasting his dark robes.

Lucius Malfoy.

He is younger, much younger than she remembers. Only a few years older than her age, now. And if he hadn't been such a slippery and selfish snake in her time, she would think him handsome—in a pompous, arrogant way. His grey eyes flick towards the book at the top of the stack in her arms. " _Magick Moste Evile?"_ An amused smile curls his lip.

 _"_ _Is it? Is it Harry Potter?" He had come to stand uncomfortably close to her, eyes a desperate gleam as he watches his son uncertainly edge closer to the trio. Malfoy's pallor was pale, paler than normal, and he had dark circles under his sunken eyes, a dishevelled look about his usually well-groomed hair. He had lines creasing his face now; he looked as if he had aged decades in the span of a few months._

Hermione recoils slightly.

"You look about Hogwarts age. A Slytherin, perhaps?"

"Yes," she bites out, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat. The reminder of her new house, ironically, imbues her with courage, and she is suddenly unashamed to be seen studying Dark texts. She stands up straighter, meeting him squarely in the eye. She lets a devious smile lift the corners of her mouth, her eyes taking on a dangerous glint. "I'm a Seventh Year."

"Wreaking havoc in the school?" Malfoy chuckles, noting the heavy stack of books clutched in her arms. "And studious, too, from the looks of it, Miss…?"

"Granger," she fills in, "Hermione Granger."

"Granger?" He raises an elegant eyebrow, "As in the—"

"Dagworth-Grangers. Yes," she smirks.

Malfoy nods approvingly. "Miss Granger, times are changing. Perhaps if you are planning to broaden your scopes, I suggest you come to Malfoy Manor on the Winter Solstice. It'll be an… _introduction_ , of sorts."

"An introduction to what?" she asks, feigning ignorance.

"Oh, you're a smart young lady," he gives her a mysterious smile, "you'll figure it out."

He sweeps into the store dramatically, leaving her alone at the front step. Releasing the huge breath she didn't realise she had been holding, she quickly shoves the stack of books into her beaded bag, glad that Malfoy had only seen _Magick Moste Evile_ , and not _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

"Lily! Wait for me!"

* * *

"You have to get this."

"You look stunning, dear," Madam Malkin agrees.

"I don't know," Hermione bites her lip contemplatively, peering at her reflection in the mirror at Madam Malkin's. Truthfully, Hermione is in love with the gold dress, the way it shimmers and casts her skin in a bronze glow, the lacy ruffles and silky soft material. However, it is a bit mature for her taste, the neckline a little too low and the colour a little too bold.

"But you look amazing!" Lily protests, eyes shining in an almost maniacal way that reminds her of her old Hogwarts roommates, Lavender and Parvati, when they drag her into one of their makeover nights.

Hermione hesitates, feeling guilty as she caves in. She had already splurged so much on books and quills. Even though the mountains of gold in the Dagworth vault belongs to her, she still feels guilty using the money.

And she still needs a wand.

As Hermione waits for one of Madam Malkin's assistants to finish tying up the bundle of robes she purchased, Lily calls over her shoulder from the doorway of the shop, "We are going straight to Ollivanders and then back to Hogwarts. Don't even think about looking at the quill display at Amenuensis Quills."

Hermione sighs.

* * *

The narrow store is as dimly lit and dusty as it is in her time. And just as she remembers, the tiny shop contains an ethereal aura, steeped in magic just waiting to be harnessed.

Lily smiles nostalgically when the enter, "I still remember getting my wand," she says, fingering the handle of her wand lovingly, "Vine—"

"—And dragon heartstring, ten and a quarter, swishy. Nice for Charm work," a voice finishes from within the depths of the shop. Ollivander emerges from the back storeroom, silver eyes twinkling. "It is very nice to see you again, Miss Evans. You were just a little girl when you first received your wand, and now you're Head Girl!" He turns to Hermione, "I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of selling you a wand yet; who was the maker?"

"Erm, Gregorovitch," she lies. "It was a willow and dragon heartstring wand as well, ten and three-quarters."

Ollivander sniffs haughtily, "I'll have you know that Ollivander wands are much sturdier and better conduits than Gregorovitch wands."

Hermione doesn't know what to say, only smiling awkwardly as Ollivander bustles around his tiny shop to prove his point. He digs out piles and piles of narrow boxes, stacking the wands in his arms until his vision is blocked and he staggers precariously back towards Hermione, who is now being assaulted by a magical tape measure with silver markings as it darted around her taking measurements of her eyebrows. Lily, seated on a spindly-legged chair in the corner, barely smothers giggles as she watches Hermione try to bat the tape measure away.

"Ah, that will do," he tells the tape measure, causing it crumple to the floor, suddenly lifeless. "Try this," he says to Hermione, "Hawthorne and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarters, flexible."

She grasps it in her hand, feeling a slight energy quiver through her arm, but immediately Ollivander shakes his head, snatching it back.

"Not this one," he mutters to himself, sorting through his piles. "Try this instead. Ebony and unicorn hair, ten inches, pliable."

This wand reacts with her even less than the ebony wand. As soon as she touches it, he grabs it back. "No, that won't work." He thrusts another wand towards her. "This one is quite similar to your old wand, willow and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarters, reasonably springy. Of course, this is an Ollivander wand, so it should suit you much better."

Hermione feels a surge of excitement as she reaches for her wand, the one that had served her dearly through her many adventures with Harry and Ron. The wand feels familiar in her hand, a warmth emerging as the wand is united with its owner.

And yet, something is off.

Worry gnaws in her stomach as she tries to swish it in the air, expecting the same explosion of fireworks to emit from her wand, but the wand only sends a feeble splutter of white sparks.

Ollivander takes it back from her, and a panic bubbles in her gut. Why hadn't it reacted properly? Was something wrong with her magic?

"Tricky, but I like a good puzzle," Ollivander murmurs happily as he hunts around his shop, disregarding the pile he had purposefully chosen for her. He spies a nondescript box towards the back of the shop and he carries it over to her, "This is a little different, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. It's an unusual combination, but when properly matched with the right wizard, it would result in a nearly unstoppable force."

The blood drains from her face when she hears his words,and she freezes. Even before Ollivander lifts the lid of the box it is contained in, she knows exactly how it would look like.

It is Harry's wand.

Hands trembling as tears spring in her eyes, Hermione reaches out tentatively, faintly feeling as if she is stealing from her best friend.

The wand flies into her hands, warmth and magic flowing through her at the touch. Her hair flutters from some unknown wind, a phoenix's song in her ears. A beautiful explosion of colours and patterns burst in the air and for a moment, the dusty air shimmers with gold.

Lily's jaw is agape and she stares at Hermione wide-eyed. "That's bloody amazing."

Ollivander blinks rapidly, also staring at Hermione in shock. "In all my years… I've never seen such a union between wand and witch."

Hermione is equally amazed, staring at Harry's wand in disbelief. "But… I don't understand…"

"The wand always chooses the wizard, my dear," Ollivander says, misinterpreting her befuddlement. "You must be an extraordinarily powerful witch for a wand to take initiative like so." He turns away, searching through the messy shop for something. "Curious, curious," he murmurs to himself.

"What?"

"That wand shares the same core with another, feathers from the same phoenix. It's quite a rare occasion when there exists brother wands. Especially in circumstances like this."

Lily tilts her head inquisitively, "Brother wands, would that imply a magical connection of sorts? In conduciveness?"

The wandmaker nods. "a strange phenomenon occurs when the wands forced against one another. _Priori Incantatum_ , it is called."

"The reverse spell," Hermione whispers, mind flashing back to the Battle of the Seven Harrys. She remembers Harry telling them of a golden light, how his wand moved on its own accord. She hadn't quite believed him until now.

"Indeed," Ollivander affirms. "Brother wands should never battle amongst themselves. Instead, should wands find themselves fighting in unity against a common enemy, the magical power increases tenfold," He shudders at the thought.

He hesitates, "I don't normally share customer information, but just this once, I think it might be appropriate." Ollivander looks at her urgently. "The wizard with whom you share the same wand core with… his name was Tom Riddle."

As Lily muses over the name in confusion, Hermione locks eyes with him, a mutual understanding passing through their shared look. She fingers the wand. Harry's wand. "Do you think… do you think there's a reason this wand chose me?"

Ollivander looks at Hermione, a sad and somewhat hopeful expression in his silvery eyes. "Some might say it is destiny."


	5. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for sticking around with me! I've been trying to update once a month, but with APs and other standardised tests coming up, I'm afraid updates will be even more sporadic.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Also, some quotes are lifted from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ by JK Rowling.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

 _"_ _We don't meet anyone by chance."_

 _–_ _Avijeet Das_

* * *

"Slytherin Commons are in the dungeons," Lily says, leading her up a staircase and winding through the stone corridors of the school.

Hermione furrows her brow. She knows the path they're heading all too well. It was, in fact, the path she took nearly every single day of her life at Hogwarts. "But, we aren't going to the dungeons," she points out. "The dungeons are in the other direction…erm…I would presume."

Lily looks at her in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I like studying architecture," Hermione explains. Truthfully, actually. "Dungeons are usually below floor level, and we just walked _up_ stairs."

Lily blushes a little, "Oh, that's right. Well, anyway," she pauses before large ornate wooden doors, "This is the library." She opens the doors widely in a dramatic flourish.

Hermione doesn't need to feign an awed look; the magnificent presence of the enormous library always took her breath away, no matter how many times she visited. There were hundreds and thousands of bookshelves crammed into the cathedral-like space. She could see her usual table near Arithmancy Section, illuminated by the large window with the clear view of the Quidditch Pitch.

Hermione knew the library like the back of her hand; she could walk through it with her eyes closed. But as Lily leads her through the narrow aisles, Hermione finds herself in a section of the library she had never noticed before.

There is a boy sitting at the table, immersed in a book entitled _The Intricate Art of Spell Creation_.

Lily clears her throat.

The boy starts, head jerking up towards the sound. He has long dark hair that hangs limply over his face and a rather large and hooked nose. His fathomless dark eyes glimmer as he stares at Lily.

Snape.

Lily's stance changes, her face becomes hard and her eyes steely. "I'm making an exception this time, Snape, only because I need a favour."

Snape brightens visibly, seeming happy just by the fact that Lily is speaking to him. "Anything," he says quickly. Hopefully.

"This is Hermione Granger. She's transferring to Slytherin. I don't know exactly where the Slytherin Common Rooms are, nor do I know the password, so would you please show her the way?" Her voice is clipped and polite, though there is a note of disdainful resentment.

"Oh, no, it's all right," Hermione says. She didn't want to disturb him from his book; she understands the feeling of being engrossed in a fascinating topic. "I'm sure I could find it."

Snape hesitates, eyeing his book and then glancing towards Lily. He bites back a sigh and shoots the tome a mournful look. "No, I'll take you there."

Lily's green eyes narrow; she had caught that. She looks at Hermione, apologetic, "Sorry about that. I don't have many Slytherin acquaintances; most of them are slimy gits." That last bit seems to be directed at Snape. She looks back at Hermione, "I'll see you around!" She turns on her heel, weaving her way through the shelves and out the library.

There is an awkward pause.

"I'm Severus," Snape says finally.

"Hermione," she returns.

"Yes," he says, an amused glint in his eyes. "I know."

They walk in tense silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Hermione eyes him in a sidelong glance. He seems vastly different than the hard and bitter professor in her days; he is softer and more sensitive. Earnest, almost. His mood wavers quite often. She likes this naïve version of him; she wants to protect him from the agonies of war.

"So, spell creation." She says, trying to strike up a conversation. "Have you invented any yet?"

He starts, blinking quickly as if jarred from his thoughts. "Actually, yes. Several, in fact," he says, puffing his chest a little. "It's really not that difficult, once you get the hang of it."

"Really?" Hermione is surprised. Spell-invention was notorious for its difficulty; there was a reason why so few spells were invented after Merlin.

"It's a lot like Potions," he explains. "If you understand what each component does and how it interacts with other pieces, it's really quite simple. Everything falls into place for you."

Hermione looks at him admiringly. "That's amazing. I've never thought of it that way."

"Of course," he says almost pretentiously, "Potions is far superior. It is an art. A fool would simply follow instructions mindlessly, but any potioneer knows it is a precise and delicate process. It's far more powerful and advanced than spell work, which in comparison, is childish."

Hermione smiles knowingly as he rambles on. She can see hints of the professor she grew up knowing in the boy next to her. The slight air of contemptuous superiority, the brilliant mind and quick wit. It feels strangely nice to see a familiar face, even if he had tormented her for many years.

"Well, here we are," he announces dully, gesturing towards a bare stretch of wall. If Hermione hadn't been told, she would have never noticed the subtle pulse of magic lingering in the stone. "The password is _incontaminatus_."

"Pure?" Hermione questions, drawing back on her rudimentary Latin.

"In an uncontaminated, or untainted way," Snape nods.

Hermione rolls her eyes.

* * *

The Slytherin Common Room is breath-taking. The room itself is long and low, with rough stone walls decorated with portraits and tapestries. Greenish lamps hanging from chains and windows displaying beautiful underwater views cast an ethereal aura.

A rather familiar-looking boy lounging on a black, low-backed sofa with green button-tufted cushions glances towards her from his group of friends, eyeing her speculatively. His eyes slide from her and to Snape, who meets his gaze unflinchingly.

"Girls' Dormitories are on the right," Snape gestures to the two large stone archways at the end of the room. She follows his gaze to see identical stairways leading further downwards, spiralling into the darkness.

It is quite the opposite of Gryffindor Tower.

"Who was that?" Hermione turns her head, but Snape had vanished, and she is alone.

* * *

"You must be the new student," the girl smiles. "Hermione Granger, right?"

"How did you know?" Hermione stares at her curiously, taking in her aristocratic features and confident posture. The girl reminds her of someone, but Hermione can't quite put her finger on it.

"Well, first of all, you're not in uniform, and you're carrying your trunk with you." The girl wrinkles her nose as she eyes her outfit critically. "The sweater's cute, but you should change the colour. Red is _so_ Gryffindor, and it'll clash with the green."

Hermione looks down at herself; she had forgotten about her new House when she purchased it at Madam Malkin's. No wonder Lily raised an eyebrow when she saw it.

"Ah," Hermione says faintly. She never really stood a chance against Lavender or Parvati when it came to fashion, and her new roommate had the same intense expression on her face as when her Gryffindor roommates had coaxed her into one of their makeover sessions. She flicks her wrist, and the maroon fabric darkens into a forest green.

The girl catches this, eyes gleaming, though she says nothing. Instead, she asks, "Are you related to Hector Dagworth-Granger?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

The girl quirks a smile. "I'm Wisteria Greengrass."

Hermione gasps a little. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass' mother. She can see the similarity. She has the same delicate features as her daughters, the same wavy brown hair as Astoria, the same clear blue eyes as Daphne.

"You've heard of me?" Wisteria asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Your family is very influential," Hermione says, choosing her words carefully. She is not sure of Wisteria's stance in the brewing war, although she remembers that the Greengrasses had remained neutral during the Second Wizarding War. "It's hard not to know you."

Wisteria rolls her eyes, but she smiles. "It's annoying, isn't it?" she asks. "You would know too, being related to Hector Dagworth-Granger." She looks out the window, eyes faraway as she stares at the beautiful, oceanic landscape. "Sometimes, I envy muggle-borns. They come from nobodies. They have no expectations pressed upon them."

"Actually, it's quite similar," Hermione says before she can stop herself. "I'd imagine, I mean. Society deems muggle-borns the scum of the earth, so they're pressured to rise higher to prove themselves worthy, which in turn, only makes things more difficult for purebloods, as they—er, _we_ —are expected to be the best. It's actually a vicious cycle, and no one can ever have a stable and secure status."

Wisteria has a glimmer of understanding in her eyes as she contemplates her words.

Hermione feels a spark of hope arising in her chest.

* * *

 _"_ _You're lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it!"_ _Bellatrix was livid with anger, dark eyes glaring at her._

 _She could feel her twisting through her mind, breaking through her weak attempts at Occlumency like a bullet. Bellatrix brutally tore through her thoughts like a knife, ripping her memories to pieces._

 _A great pain filled her head, worse than the Cruciatus Curse. It felt like she was burning from the inside, her very soul disintegrating._

 _Hermione was losing herself; she felt her identity slipping through her fingers._ _Her vision is a kaleidoscope of images, memories._ _She saw fragments of memories, a flash of something silver. A blade, possibly._

 _A splash of red in the corner of her vision catches her eye. The bright colour brings life to the sea of grey._

 _It was beautiful._

 _Hermione laughed. So this was how she tortured the Longbottoms to insanity…_

* * *

Hermione wakes up, cold sweat dripping down the back of her neck. She splays a trembling hand on her chest, feeling her heart beating erratically.

 _My name is Hermione Granger. My name is Hermione Granger. My name is Hermione Granger._

As she catches her breath, her left hand trails over her right forearm, unconsciously running her fingers over the scarred lettering. _Mudblood._

She shudders, still feeling Bellatrix Lestrange's iron grip on her wrists, her maniacal laughter in her ears.

Gryffindor courage be damned. She can't go back to sleep. She won't.

Lifting the covers off, Hermione quietly places her feet onto the cold stone flooring, skin prickling as a chill races up her veins, and tiptoes out of the dormitory, the sounds of quiet snoring slightly calming her down.

As she makes her way up the stairs and towards the crackling fire of the Slytherin Common Room, she hears quiet voices.

"…another letter," the first voice was saying. "They think I'm—"

"This is your own doing," the second voice says harshly. "You have to follow through now."

The first voice took on a defensive tone, "I _don't_ —"

"Yes you do," the second interrupts. "You wouldn't have deprived me of my sleep had you not been so indecisive."

" _Please_ ," the first voice snapped, "you would've been up anyway. You're constantly thinking about how you can fix everything with _her_."

"Don't you _dare_ bring her into this. You know _nothing_."

Hermione bites her lip with she hears the sound of footsteps. Quickly casting a Disillusionment Charm, she presses herself against the stone wall as the steps grow louder.

A dark shape storms past her, barely visible in the darkness. _So familiar…_

She squints, trying to make out the form. _Was that a lanky form under that fluttering cloak? The faintest scent of valerian and soap?_

Shaking her head of suspicions that came tumbling through her mind, she lifts the Disillusionment Charm and stumbled into someone.

Hermione gasps as she tumbles to the ground. She had forgotten about the other person.

Towering over her, illuminated only by the light emanating from the fireplace, stood the boy from earlier in the Slytherin Commons.

The boy gives her another calculating look, but only sticks out an arm. "Need a hand?"

She grasps his hand gratefully, pulling herself off the floor. "Thanks. I'm Hermione Granger."

"I know who you are," he says simply, dusting off his hands and striding past her, making his way towards the Boys' Dormitories.

She tilts her head, staring at his retreating figure in curiosity. "I don't know yours."

He pauses, turning back to give her a smirk. His grey eyes glittered in the shadows.

She knew that smirk. It was the same smirk she saw someone else wear often in her own time. An arrogant smirk that concealed the pain underneath.

The name was at the tip of her tongue when he spoke.

"The name's Black, Regulus Black."


End file.
